The Things We Keep(19)

“Who s-says I won’t know it? Who says I won’t be h-happy? Who says you won’t be?”

I laugh blackly. “I’ll never save another life. I’ll never run a marathon or ride a motorcycle. My best jokes are definitely behind me.”

A sudden, muffled snore punches into the silence, and I leap. Young Guy steadies me. I can smell the laundry soap on his T-shirt. It’s unnerving, and also … exhilarating. His clothes are thin and so are mine, and for the second time in a day, I imagine leaning forward and pressing my lips against his mouth.

“Okay, so no m-marathons,” he whispers, letting me go. “But w-what about the other stuff? Sitting in a garden. Eating eggs on toast. Spending time with loved ones. Doesn’t that have value?”

“You should be a motivational speaker.”

“Thanks. But you … didn’t answer my question.”

“No,” I whisper. “I don’t think that stuff has value. I don’t think life is about eggs on toast. Life is about doing something great.”

“How do you know … something g-great … isn’t still ahead?”

The question hangs in the air. I contemplate telling him the truth. On one hand, it seems unnecessarily cruel, on another, it might be the only thing that gets him off my back.

“My mom had Alzheimer’s,” I say finally. “And I promise you, there’s nothing great ahead.”

As predicted, this silences his eternal optimism. I’m almost disappointed when he doesn’t fire back immediately with a retort. He seemed so committed to life. I start toward the stairs.

“What was her name?” he calls after me.

“What?”

“Your m-mom. What was her name?”

The question stops me short. Since I’ve been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, lots of people have asked me if there is a family history. They’re interested and sometimes saddened to hear about my mom. They express sympathy. Some say prayers for me.

Not once has anyone asked Mom’s name.

I half turn back. “It was … Valerie.”

“V-Valerie,” he repeats. As he says it, he nods like he’s trying to commit it to memory. It does something to me. The room starts to move, and I realize I’m sinking to the floor.

“No…” I whisper when I feel his arms go around me, but the fight seems to have gone out of me. And when he guides me back to my room, I let him. Then I’m in bed and he’s tucking blankets up around me and I’m crying, from a place deep within. I never had a good answer to Mom’s question. “If I don’t remember, will I have been here at all?” But maybe her question was flawed. Maybe it doesn’t matter what you remember. Maybe if someone else remembers and speaks your name, you were here.





7

Eve

On our first morning in our new home, I wake early. Clem is beside me, sweaty and warm, and completely dead to the world. She’s flat on her back with her arms outstretched (“the crucifix,” Richard called it) while drool weeps slowly from her open mouth. Last night, once we’d got through the first twisty, turny hour, she’d been a delight to sleep with—a sweet-smelling deadweight to cocoon around. It was so welcome after four months of sleeping alone. So unbelievably welcome.

I decide to make poached fruit and muesli for breakfast, if only to mask the smell of salami. I gulp down some coffee, then peel my pears and apples, chop my rhubarb, get out my cinnamon and vanilla bean. It’s my first day of work. Surprisingly, I find that slightly thrilling. During my study at the cookery school, I’d looked forward to this. Not working at a residential care facility, obviously, but cooking for a living. I’d visualized it—the fresh produce I’d procure from markets; the bustling nights in a hot, hectic kitchen; the new twists I’d invent on traditional recipes.

Mother didn’t like it when I said things like “new twists.” “Why do you have to get all fancy all the time, Evie?” she’d say. “A bit of tradition never did anyone any harm!”

I grew up on meat and three vegetables, but I’m not sure which three, because Mother always cooked them until they were so gray and mushy, they were unrecognizable. Everything was drowned in ketchup and swilled down with soda or, in Dad’s case, a pint of Guinness. Condiments were used liberally, so were butter and cream. We lived by Dad’s foolproof equation: Salt plus pepper equals flavor.

I still remember the day I tasted my first spice, on a date when I was seventeen. I don’t remember the guy’s name, but I do remember the warmth that shot into my belly when we wandered into that Brick Lane curry house in London. The scent of turmeric and cumin—so thick, I could taste it. The colors—yellows, reds, and greens—of the food on the table. The burst of fire when I chomped down on a surprise chili, the relief of the coconut rice against the roof of my mouth afterwards. That was the moment I knew cooking was in my future.

Six months later, I packed up and moved to New York to attend the Institute of Culinary Education. It was a lifetime ago now and so much had changed. Perhaps the one thing that hadn’t changed was my love of cooking.

Once my fruit is poaching on the stove, I set out some bowls. I find the newspaper outside the door. The old tenants must have forgotten to cancel their subscription. I smile, thinking Clem will like it—a little like being at a hotel—until I see Richard’s face on the front page. Actually, the paper is folded in half, so all I see is his chin—that sweet cleft Clem has inherited. The one I used to squash between my thumb and forefinger teasingly … I’d know it anywhere. And although after four months, I should be used to seeing Richard’s face in the news, I feel the familiar flap of panic. What now?